Page 23 of Sexting the Boss
His mouth closes around my nipple, tongue circling, and my back arches as his hand slides lower, over the curve of my stomach, down to the thin lace between my legs. He presses his fingers there and finds me soaked.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re ready for me.”
Then he kisses me again. The bed shifts under his weight, and a full-body awareness spreads through me before he even touches me. Something about the way he moves—like he’s done deciding and I don’t get a say anymore—makes my pulse trip.
He kneels between my thighs, spreading them with his palms.
“Keep them open.” His voice is an order that slides over my skin like smoke. “All the way. I want to see exactly how greedy this pussy is.”
Heat flares down my spine at the sound of the word on his tongue. He brushes his knuckles between my thighs, not touching where I need him, just skimming the inside of my leg, and I flinch from how sensitive I already am.
Then I hear the soft crack of something between his teeth.
My eyes flicker open. “What was that?”
He smiles, and it’s fucking wicked. “You’ll find out.”
Then I feel it—cold. A shocking, tingling coolness from his tongue as it slides along my inner thigh. Menthol. Ice and fire in the same breath. My hips jerk off the bed in surprise, and helaughs.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s going to feel real fucking good.”
He leans in, dragging that chilled tongue higher, leaving a trail of sensation that burns after the cold fades. His mouth gets closer to where I need him, and my body’s already arching, chasing it, shaking with want.
“Stay still,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll tie you down and edge you until you cry.”
I let out a choked sound, raw and needy. “Please?—”
“Don’t beg yet,” he says, and then his mouth finally lands on me, and it’s everything.
The shock of menthol hits hard, ice-cold at first, and then the heat spreads after, blooming across every nerve. His tongue is slow, firm, confident, licking through me like he has nowhere else to be, like hisonlyjob is to devour every inch until I can’t remember my own name.
And I can’t. My mind blanks as the contrast plays out—cool tongue, hot breath, slick lips, rough stubble—a symphony of contradiction that has me sobbing his name before I’m even close.
“You taste fucking perfect,” he groans into me. “Sweet and messy. This pussy was made for my mouth.”
My thighs tremble violently. He grabs my hips, holds me open, and goes deeper, sucking hard enough to make me cry out.
“That’s it,” he growls. “Grind on me. Use my face. Fuck it if you need to.”
I do. I can’t resist. My hips buck against his mouth, and he urges it, tongue working in swift circles, dragging groans out of me I’ve never heard myself make. His praise hits just as hard as his tongue.
“You’re so wet for me. Such a good girl.”
He drags his tongue lower, then higher, then back again, spreading the cold sting and warmth until my whole body is lit up with it. Then—god—he blows on me. Cool air hits where his mouth was just hot, and I scream.
“Sensitive, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
I try to answer, but all that comes out is a broken gasp. My hands claw at the sheets, then at his shoulders, then back to the sheets because Ineedsomething to hold.
He flattens his tongue and drags it up slowly, then flicks the tip, sharp and fast. Every movement is as if he’s studying me, using my sounds and twitches like a roadmap to ruin.
His fingers dig in at my thighs to keep me spread, to keep me there for him, then he does something that short-circuits every nerve: he slips one cold, mint-slick finger inside while his mouth stays right where it is.
I scream.
“Yeah. That’s it. Fucking lose it for me.” His voice is hoarse. “You were made to be wrecked like this.”
I’m falling apart. I’m dripping, panting, begging. I don’t know where I end and he begins. He pulls his mouth back just far enough to look at me—his lips wet, eyes dark and gleaming. “Going to say it properly?”
